(Afterward) One Corner More/ Notes on a Letter to the Singer Abby Lincoln from Her Lover, Abraham Lincoln
April 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011
1 Min read time
I once received this astonishing letter‚ a truly atrocious one‚ especially upsetting because‚ just between us‚ most of what it said happened to be true. I sent it back. It came back to me. Sparring. The fix–blue mind could operate like a fugitive. Running from what. Running to something. Grace/the front row. And when you reach it. It doesn’t exist.
I began praying in Paris. That I may not be a parody‚ that I may remain alert‚ naïve‚ piercing. I prayed from pairs of unreasonable meter‚ to where joy is sorrow unmasked. I prayed for at least ten years. Sometimes in public‚ when the brothels were full. Sometimes in Hollywood. Once upon a time they owned slaves/nowadays they rent them from the behavior of orators. I loved those men. It has nothing to do with Africa. Or a harp in the nightclub. Were you here to protect property like it was lives. Was I any of the difference? Fertile plots‚ of Storyland and rate times time spangled distance. Standards. Restrained urgency. When it finally cannot be judged it will be judged as jazz. You act like you know that insult by heart. But even that is a coincidence of the metaphysical world. It’s cool‚ I’m black too. I can hear myself swallow into the microphone when he leaves in the middle of the show. As part of the song. Maybe we did what the music did‚ it’s true. No truces. Locusts and doves‚
You were a philosopher
You were a polygamous woman
You had the courage to defend yourself
It’s always been like this
So if I had never met
anyone but you‚
I would have known which way to go
While we have you...
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April 08, 2011
1 Min read time